Sunday, July 21, 2013

Brittany, of course, has a lot of it, so no matter where you
are, you’re never that far from a spot of ozone replacement therapy. In these
hot days, the lure of the beach is stronger than ever, though it calls all year
round.

The coast differs greatly depending where you are, from the wide
sandy crescents of St Brieuc bay, to the tiny little beaches amid the rocks of
the Côte de Granit Rose, to the mighty cliffs of the Atlantic coast.

We’ve been up to the beach at Les Rosaires in all weathers.
One wintry Tuesday we picked up a whole roast chicken and a pot of fried
potatoes and onions from the rotisserie man at Quintin market, and ate them in
the car watching the waves hurl at the beach.

Even on the least inviting days there will be someone in the
sea. It’s common to see groups in wetsuits walking breast-high through the
water, occasionally with a leader who does the whole thing backwards whilst
encouraging the rest.One lot were all
equipped with paddles, looking for all the world as though their boat had sunk
under them. There are events where these teams walk all the way across the bay,
though I think I’ll give that a miss; you can’t exactly sit down half way for a
breather.

We’ve recently been up at high tide, with the waves foaming
at the rocks just below the promenade, and the sea noisy but not
quarrelsome.Later the same week, it was
flat calm, murmuring at the sand. There have been men with fishing rods
stretched out, hoping for a bite. In other seasons there will be lots of people
bent at the waist, looking for shellfish with which to fill their buckets. The
beach occasionally gives generously, but it also takes back: every year someone
will die for concentrating too much on the possibilities of a free lunch and
not enough on the turn of the tide.

Just now it’s full summer, and very hot, so there are
families at the beach; but there are nothing like the crowds we have seen on
the TV news. ‘England is having a heat wave – head for the sea and broil!’ It
doesn’t seem so frantic here. Dogs, horses and radios are banned from the beach
from 10am to 7pm. There will be people playing volleyball, courts scratched
into the sand, and children building sandcastles; there will be babies trying
out the water for the first time, and teenagers discovering that air and water
temperature don’t line up as closely as they hoped. There just won’t be a lot
of noise or cramped crowds.

There are sailing schools, and numerous vessels just
offshore with matching sails, passing back and forth before the breeze – or
against it, which confuses a landlubber like me no end.

This proximity to water is wonderful, even though neither of
us is a swimmer; we’re more the frantic floater types.We live near a lake, but there’s something
sinister and waiting about lakes; I’m not sure what it is, but still deep water
worries me. The sea doesn’t wait for anyone. It just does its thing, backwards
and forwards, endlessly, and in many moods.

Now, the renovations can’t be put on hold just because it’s
summer, you know; but we’ve come up with a compromise. I will go into yet
another DIY store and gaze longingly at plumbing sundries, (largely because I’m
the one with the specs about my person and neither of us can read the small
print without them), in exchange for a swift detour to the beach five minutes
up the road. It works out really well. We both get some exercise and fresh – occasionally
very fresh – air, and we come home with lots of things to keep He Who Does
Everything Around Here occupied next door for hours afterwards.

So I sit here at the bottom of the house – I’ve had to
decamp, or suffer from heatstroke up under the roof – and write, with a new
view of the garden to gaze at for inspiration, while he plumbs and mutters and
wanders in and out for cups of tea. Then, when he comes in frowning, and says,
‘There’s a bit of a hitch,’ I sigh and reply, in that wifely understanding but
slightly exasperated way, that we’d better go and buy another part. I’ll pack
my sun-hat and towel, and reach for the Factor 50 cream.

Monday, July 1, 2013

The sun has come out, the temperature’s on the rise, and
every commune is having fetes of one sort or another.

We had our Music Festival a week ago. This is a very local
event, held in the car park of the Mairie and the church. Anyone can take part:
you just book your slot with the Mairie’s office. (Yes, I could have; no, I didn’t.We have to keep the entente cordiale cordial, you know).

The evening began with a Balade Chantée: this is a walk
round the village’s many little green ways, in amongst the houses, accompanied
by a donkey (for reasons that weren’t explained, especially not to the donkey,
who objected to being there) and a group of singers. A man and a boy played Breton
pipes, if the singing flagged. All the
songs were question/answer ones, where the lead sings a line and the rest repeat
it. We stopped at the Fontaine of St
Théo, a place where women used to scrub their smalls to the beat of bawdy
songs. We paused at a house where the garden is open to the public on regular
occasions; and then off we went after the donkey, behind our
own garden, and back to the Mairie.

Within a few minutes, with barely time for a small glass of
wine, we were whisked off to the church, where a choir sang something French to
the tune of Over the Sea to Skye, and Zulu and Maori music, as well as some
jazz: and they really enjoyed themselves – as did we, even if the benches were designed to make sinners repent.

The interior of our village church

Outside again, there was time for a galette saucisse: a galette, with a sausage in it, wrapped in a
napkin, and eaten like an ice cream cornet – just the thing for a chilly evening.

After that there were various groups who for some reason
sang in English (and I have never heard A Hard Day’s Night rendered with such
perfect diction before), some Breton dancing and traditional music, and all
washed down at the obligatory beer tent.

It ended with a bonfire and a trumpet playing a salute.

Yesterday was the Fete du Monde Rurale. This is rather
larger, and canton-wide.

Now, the thing about this is that it happens every two years,
in pretty much the same guise: the first time we went it was in the grounds of
the Chateau, but this time it was on a dairy farm at the other end of the
village. (As that’s about 300metres from end to end it’s not far). This time we had the sit-down meal: it was organised so that we all took a glass of kir, a tray holding a plastic plate,
half a melon with parma ham, a piece of cheese (‘the cheese course’), and a
dessert, and sat down at a table. There we found napkin, cutlery and spare
plastic cup. We could buy a bottle of
wine if desired (it was), and we settled down again. When we had eaten our
starter, we took the same plate outside to where men were slaving over a
barbecue grill, on the hottest day of the year so far, cooking beef from a
local beast. We were given our steak and two boiled potatoes, and went back to our
table. Eventually a lady came round with
a coffee jug, and the meal was complete.

By now the decibel level in the barn had risen to
astonishing proportions, but we were wise to have gone in when we did. An
American-style marching band came in to play later, to add to the fun, but we listened from the safety of the open air.

Outside there were farm machines old and young in use, Breton
horses with foals, wine tasting (we didn’t), farm-made ice-creams (we did), and a man
herding geese with a sheepdog.

There were stalls set out with rural history,
and other farm related exhibitions. There were two beer tents (it was a hot
day) and a helicopter selling 5-mintue taster rides. These went on long into
the evening after everyone else had left, and the cows had been milked.

Pretty much all of this will be repeated next time, and everyone
will go again, because it’s free (apart from the meal and the drinks), and
because it’s local and it’s what life is about. There’s nothing complicated, apart
from the catering for nearly 1000 meals, and you may have seen it all before:
that doesn’t matter one jot. It’s a community event, and it’s being seen to be
part of it.

About Me

Moved to France in 2004, to the Vienne. Moved up to Brittany in 2010, to renovate a couple of houses and a cottage. I write an online advice column, and fiction, and cook sustaining food,whilst he who does everything around here slaves over a hot drill, chainsaw, router, trowel, cable, ladder....